


commonly overlooked by fate

by WabiSabi



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluffy, I Blame Tumblr, I needed someone to hug spencer for me, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Not ace! Reid, Romance, Set from 9 season fowards, Slash, basically everyone from the team, hints of depression, mild autism, not explicit violence, so I decided to use John (my omc)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7092709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WabiSabi/pseuds/WabiSabi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yes, John Harrison didn´t have an exciting life because of bad luck or lack of opportunities. He simply was not a fan of danger, mostly because it usually means something unhealthy for his life. And John likes his mundane life, thank you very much. Judge all you want.</p>
<p>And because of that, he is still wondering what he did to deserve faling in love with the dorkiest FBI´s agent in the world, who is definitely not going to share his desire for a quiet life and definitely will turn his world into a novel drama that everyone but him wants. </p>
<p>Damn Spencer Reid and his adorable hair and kissable everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the final chapter of John Harrison

**Author's Note:**

> Hello people, just a little warning: I don´t have a beta to help me and english is not my first language, so please if you spot any gramma errors, don´t hesitate to inform me.
> 
> Enjoy the story!

John Harrison didn´t led an exciting life.

Youngest son of a HR Manager and English teacher, he didn´t had many expectations placed on him when growing up, especially considering that he had two older sisters by 10 and 12 years of difference, who were already walking in the footsteps of becoming lawyer and doctor when he completed his first decade of life. He never really resented that (a strike of jealously here or there when he was a teenager) and with time he became wise enough to let the family´s spotlights with the ones who wanted it and focused on building to himself a quiet and regular life.

Let´s clarify that statement: a quiet and regular and _safe_ life.

Yes, John Harrison didn´t have an exciting life because of bad luck or lack of opportunities. He simply was not a fan of danger, mostly because it usually means something unhealthy for his life. And John liked his mundane life, thank you very much. Judge all you want.

It was like a thing his grandma used to say when he was little: _a kind of fruit to each kind mouth_. Not only was an excellent excuse to not eat custard apple, but also a beautiful metaphor to justify his complete lack of interest on leading an adrenaline junkie life as his friends or sisters (who were very determined to prove him that climbing mountains high as the _fricking_ clouds were _fun_ ).

He was boring. He knew that since, like, when he was ten and he realize that he would rather play chest with his teacher than going to the roller coaster with his friends.

For God´s sake, his name was _John_ (no offense to the Johns out there). So therefore, by his grandma logic, he had to have a boring life, and that is what he had been successfully doing for the last three decades.

He graduated high school with 18 and Economy University with 23. Decided with 24 that life working in an office wasn´t for him and on his 26th birthday opened a relative successful library in a quiet area of Quantico, with a clientele composed primarily of nice old people. This year, he would have completed almost a decade of sitting behind a counter doing nothing but reading and selling his books while listening thousands of Cold War's stories, grandchildren and how different life was 50 years ago (he liked mostly of the one about technology because, yeah, things are too easy this days. Humanity had a simpler time).

That didn´t happened, of course, because he went crazy and decided to listen to his sisters by making a dangerous decision and ended up having his stomach stabbed and left to bleed to death.

Maybe was a twisted sense of humor hidden inside him or maybe was the severe blood loss talking, but John kind of wondered what his friends would say now about being _adventurous_. Because in this moment his left hand was dipped into his personal pool of blood and the right one numb from all the cuts and burns (which was a relief, actually, since he had all five fingers broken), all thanks to his decision to step out of his safe bubble.

(Okay, to be fair he admitted that this was kind of an abruptly 180º turn from how he had always carried his life, and not even remotely close to what people had proposed him to do)

(However, his point remained)

Sleepiness was sweeping in his body, making his eyelids heavy, converting every blink into a slow deliberated movement. The pain was no longer the hot, sharp howling thing from before destroying all his senses into a messy confusion where he couldn´t hear nor see nor feel. But it was still there, making itself know like a ghost in his entire body.

However, because the shock was fading, his mind was drifting to a disconnected awareness of his body. The agony itself felt numbed.

The world was darkness and John couldn´t remember if it was because he was blind or because he closed his eyes at some point. The first would really sucks but the latter would be awesome, since every cells from his being was begging to him sleep.

However, something was telling him that failing asleep was a bad idea.

Screaming, actually. Directly above his ear.

Hands were pressing painfully around the knife embedded on his stomach, while the owner shouted above him with orders like don´t fall asleep, don´t close your eyes, _please, please, stay with me, don´t do that, don´t- don´t close your eyes, please–_ … Which John would have found annoying if wasn´t for the trembling voice, making his heart hurt as much as his abdomen.

He wished he could move to hold those shaking hands. Wished he could just press his lips to those rambling ones, to make the begging stop.

 _I am trying, but I can´t_ is the answer locked by heavy numbness.

Even though he tried very bravely to stay away, he knows what this is. Knows what follows. And he wants to cry with the unfairness of everything because is _so soon_. Thirty-five years of maybe a hundred. He still owns sixty-five years to live, years that he started to make plans for not even two weeks ago when he felt excited about the future for the first time on his life.

Why this mess had to happen right now? Why fucking now? Why not five months ago? Four, maybe three, three months before and he wouldn´t be feel so miserable for dying.

Now? Now he wants to cry and apologize. Because _you wouldn´t be here too, if I had decided to be stupid three months earlier, and I´m sorry for doing this to you, I should have listened._

“…-ohn! John, oh god, please, _please_ , _please!”_

_I´m so sorry, Spencer._

 


	2. the fall of the american Tower Eiffel

John had amazing engineer skills when came to make book stacks and he took all the advantage he could of it to impress his costumers. And Mrs. Shelley was definitely looking impressed by his 1/10.000-scale replica of the Eiffel Tower, spanning five feet at its base and towering above the romantic section, with crappy teenager novels for the foundation, pseudo-50 Shades of Grey for the first platform, John Green for the second and classics pocket books for the superior part.

It was a thing of beauty, really, and John was feeling very proud when he stepped out of the ladder. Putting hands on the hips, he stopped besides Mrs. Shelley and looked up his craftsmanship as a father would to his A+ kid. “Done.”

The old woman hummed. “What a stunning work, John.” There was a wrinkly smile to him, to which he beamed and made a full bow, taking an imaginary hat and placing above the heart.

“Well, many thanks, my lady. Your compliments are much appreciated.”

“Still not as impressive as the Manhattan Bridge from Mr. Darcy shop, but pretty as well.”

He gasped excessively loud, straightening up. Striking a hurt stance, he shot her his best betrayed-look. “That thing had been set up for ages! We can´t even know if was him who build it!”

Mrs. Shelley smiled over his dramatics, looking over the top of her golden spectacles with playful eyes. She was teasing him and they both knew. When he turned to respond, he finally noticed that she was holding two crappy teenager books (as he would call, since he read them all and knew they were crappy) from the same author John knew was her granddaughter favorite. Since was March, probably was for the girl birthday… that was a week from now, right? He couldn´t quite remember the exact date.

He decided to change strategic and simply huffed and took the books from the old lady, going to the counter with a little swirl. She laughed, following him. “You´re lucky I love your Thanksgiving cinnamon pie, woman.” John said, scanning and packing the novels before taking three gift-wraps. “Green, blue or yellow?”

“Green. Angeline had taken some online test saying she is member from green clan or something like that? She is only wearing green now.” Mrs. Shelley replied, with an amused frown and a confused shrug. John had to laugh.

“Well, is your fault! You are the one who gave her the Harry Potter complete box last year. Is only expected to a 12 old to become obsessed.”

“Harry Potter?”

“The books with the wizard boy.” When that didn´t seem to clarify to Mrs. Shelley, he made round signs with his fingers over his own glasses and as magic, the old woman expression cleared.

She had been skeptical about the books, mostly because she thought that no responsible parent would give rounds glasses to an eleven year old. Only bought after John explained that Harry was orphan and poor.

“Ooh, that one. I see-”

A suddenly loud _bang!_ interrupted Mrs. Shelley, followed by a pained yelp and then a even more loud boom as if thousand things falling.

Both of them jumped, alarmed, and John only gave himself a second to look to Mrs. Shelley startled face before sprinting towards the loud noise, which came from where he was two seconds ago.

He slid on the ground, his shoes screeching uncomfortably in the air while he turned the corner. His mouth was already open in worry when he saw.

Books. Hundreds of books spread across the floor… exactly where his beautiful Eiffel Tower had been standing not two minutes ago.

When he finally finished after a three-hour work.

He stopped, feeling his stomach tied itself in knots of horror and chock. His jaw was wide open, words forgotten while his brain tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

Didn´t work very well.

"Oh god..." He breathed, pressing the base of his hands against his forehead. 

“John, what- oh! Oh my sweet Jesus, are okay?”

Mrs. Shelley voice proceeded the woman herself and he snapped back in time to see she approaching from the counter, expression going from mildly worried to pale when she locked on something behind him. John turned, and he finally registered he young man besides the ladder, dropped over of what remained of his piece of art.

Disheveled, he was wearing black khaki pants and a rumpled beige sweater, having one of his feet and part of his leg stuck under the pile of books. Holding a novel with a knuckle-white force, the young man was staring horrified to the disaster until Mrs. Shelley spoke.

He startled, instinctively pulling his leg. This proved to be a mistake when he let out an exclamation of pain, grabbing the knee. That prompted John forwards quickly, all thoughts about his Eiffel Tower put to side for the moment.

“Hey, hey, hey, don´t move.” He kneeled beside the other man, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

The boy immediately nodded, a short shaky movement, still holding the knee with one hand and the book with the other. His face was a ghostly white and he was breathing quickly enough to John start to worry about a passed out in his arms when he replied, stuttering so fast John got lost after the five words. “T-this- I think I twisted my ankle when- when I fell- I-I´m sorry, I have a chronic clumsiness problem where sometimes I space out when- when focusing on something and I was looking for a Brazilian book from the 19th century and the Brazilian shelve was on the top of the bookcase and when I reached I-I took a step back too wide and- and I didn´t mean to- to bump in the ladder, I´m sorry, I´m sorry, I didn´t see it, I will help fix it, I promise, I just-”.

“Wow, buddy!” John interrupted, laughing once, impressed with the amount of words spoken in the last two seconds. He turned to the other man and looked back to the hazel eyes, wide with anxiety with the guy panting as he had run a marathon.  “It´s amazing how fast you can talk, but my ears aren´t that awesome. Slow down. Breath.”

The man stared at him for a brief moment, as he was trying to grasp what he was saying, and then he suddenly seemed to understand. He nodded, pressing his lips into a thin line, and draw a shaky breath through the nose.

John smiled reassuring, waiting until the other´s breathing had calmed to a more normal level before squeezing one last time his shoulder, releasing. “That´s right, just breathe, okay? I will take these books off you.”

Before turning to his ex-Eiffel Tower, he sent a meaningful look to Mrs. Shelley, who had approached silently and was hovering worriedly above the man. Seeing his expression, the old lady nodded and crouched besides the younger with her typical smile, exhaling that typical grandma vibe. “Now, you made yourself quite a mess, huh?” She said gently without accusation in the voice, already tidying up the lad clothes. “That is what a call the desire to a good read. Which one is this?”

The guy couldn´t be much younger than John himself is, but it still felt like she was talking with a kid. Not that it was unexpected, since Shelley did that with almost everyone younger than her (excluding John, of course, because she was mean like that). He hid a smile when he turned towards to the books on the floor, not missing the confused hazel eyes looking back to her. She pointed to the novel he was holding and the young man looked down and he seemed surprised for a second, as if he had forgotten he was holding something.

Then his expression brightened like a lamp and he launched into an excited lecture, even more quickly than the previous one.

“Is Dom Casmurro, a Brazilian novel published in 1899 written by Machado de Assis, a very renowned writer and poet, alongside novelist, journalist, columnist, playwright and literary critic. He was a very dedicated serial writer, you know, who wrote around six hundred chronicles, five collections of poems and sonnets, two hundred tales and nine novels that-”

John tried not to stare, but it was humanly impossible not to look when the other male interrupted himself abruptly, mouth still open to form the next words. He closed it, swallowing and awkwardly shifting in place, lowering his eyes embarrassed to his laps. Shelley looked back at John with a baffled expression and he could understand a little, although mostly of his feelings right now consisted on awe.

It was hard to find people who knew anything about foreigner literate that wasn´t European, even more on this level of details.

On this level of… enthusiasm.

John felt a small smile build up almost at its own, together with a good feeling that melted the little resentment still in the back of his head. Pushing the last books (careful with was most certainly a sprained ankle), he rose and offered his hand to the younger man. He raise his head, looking from him to his hand a few times before accepting with a slight hesitation, thin long fingers wrapping around his own.

When he pulled the man up steadied him firmly over one foot, John said. “Ten.”

The other guy blinked to him, confused. “What?”

“Machado de Assis wrote ten novels, not nine.” He pulled one of the man´s arms over his shoulder, taking easily almost all of his the weight. Which was not much, actually, he probably could have lifted him without trouble. He smiled to him. “ _Iaiá Garcia_ , 1878. It wasn´t one of his brightest works, so most ignore it in favor of others.”

“I …” The guy looked stunned, looking a little like John´s nephew when he showed him the “ _coin in the ear_ ” trick for the first time and John had to laugh.

He took him to the closest chair, gently lowering him. He kicked another chair closer, indicating with his hand to the other man place his foot over, which he did, hissing softly with the pain. Even with the shoes and socks on, was plain visible the swelling and when John finally managed to take off those, he had to whistle to the swollen foot. It was looking _very_ painful.

“Don´t feel bad, hon.” Shelley consoled the still slightly wide-eyed man, patting him on the shoulder while John went get ice from the small kitchen hidden behind the counter. “John´s memory for random book´s facts is almost inhumanly accurate in the worst of times-”

“I heard that!”

“- but you also have an amazing memory. Are you a fan from this writer?” The old woman continued as she hadn´t heard him, to which he puffed indignant, popping out ice cubes into a supermarket´s bag and wrapping in a cloth.

“I, I don´t know if I can be called a fan since I- I hadn´t read all of his works yet, but I do have an… an eidetic memory. Mostly related to things I read, though.” Was the shy response, stumbling a little with the words.

John whistled, fishing the ice package quickly. “That´s impressive, man.” He said as he returned to the store. He saw the younger male shrugging humbly to his compliment, looking a little embarrassed, before John handing the package, which he accepted with a grateful smile. “…thank you.”

“Don´t mention.”

He carefully put the ice over the swallow ankle, hissing softly. Shelley hummed sympathetically from where she was sitting beside the guy, patting him comfortingly in the shoulder before getting up. “I´m terribly sorry, but I have to get going if I want to be back at home when my daughter arrive.” She sent an apologetic look to the other man.

He blinked, seeming a little startled. “D-don´t worry! I´m fine already, you, you can go. Thank you for the help.”

“Oh, I didn´t do anything!” She smiled before turning to John, pinning him with serious eyes. “And you take care of your customer, you hear me young man?”

He made a flourished bow before taking her hand with both hands, kissing it. “Your wishes are my commands, my lady.” John spoke, using his butchered version of a british accent that would probably offend an actual british.

She laughed, rolling her eyes at his ways and clapping him gently in the face. “Oh, John, if you tried half of this flirts with the women you meets, you would already be married.”

“And lose the chance to serve you, milady Shelley? Never.” He put is most serious face, successfully making her laugh even more. She shakes her head and turns to the younger man watching the intercalation quietly, waving before disappearing on the way to the cashier. John doesn´t bother following her, knowing she was going to leave the exact sum in the counter and take the books she wanted.

Instead, he sits where she was and look to the younger man, smiling friendly. “So.”

He returns the gesture, although hesitant. He speak then, sounding shy and curiosity at the same time. “You´re… very nice with her.”

“Hm?”

“With… with Mrs. Shelley, I mean.” He clarifies and then quickly explain when he see John´s confused expression. “It´s just-… people usually don´t bother to… be nice with old people, I guess. Except the ones who work with them, or at least they should. I mean, of course they should be, I´m not saying that- that you shouldn´t be nice, but just-… we, we don´t usually see people being so nice with elders.”

He finishes with his voice gradually failing until completely quieting, his face flushing aggressively and he averting his eyes to his foot. John scratches his the back of his neck laughing a little, feeling all of sudden very self-conscious about the way he act around his regulars.

“I guess? Technically, I work with elders, since almost all my costumers are old people from around here, as they are the only ones who doesn’t know how to download a PDF or doesn’t own an Ebook these days. But-.” He pauses, and then shrug. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, they are nice people, so I try to be nice to them too.”

The guy nods, looking back at him for a few moments before dropping his eyes again, rubbing nervous circus on his leg. They fell into silence for a moment.

John´s eyes wandered to the ridiculously large pile of books on his right and he grimaced, thinking about the work it would be to clean that mess. He hadn´t thought about the reverse process of building that thing when he decided to do it, and he probably-

“I´m sorry.”

John blinked, looking to the other man who was also staring the stack of books with a miserable expression, shoulders hunched together. He raised his eyes and soon hazels orbits were staring back at him, flooded by guilty. “I-I will help build again.” He said, managing to sound firm even stuttering a little.

John tilted his head and pointedly looked to the swollen ankle, raising his eyebrows. The other guy blushes and starts to babble nervously and John has to laugh, because that man was too easy to tease. “Don´t worry about that, honey. You destroyed my tower. My tower almost broke your leg. In my book, we are even.”

He swallows nodding, still red as a tomato. In addition, he starts to give off such giant waves of discomfort, awkwardly shifting in place while trying to still the ice on his ankle, which is still looking horrible, that John feels a little guilty. He considers the other man briefly, trying to think of something to make him relax.

His eyes then fall to the book on the other´s lap and remembering what he said before, he asks. “Which ones you haven´t read yet?”

“What?”

Instead of answering, he pointed. The other man looked down then tilted his head, seeming to think. “This is the last one of the novels, but I have read only two hundred and thirty-four from his chronicles, seventy-eight of his tales and sixteen of his poems.”

John stared. The complete innocence way the other one talked told him that he was totally serious with the numbers.

He faltered a little, thinking that maybe – _just maybe_ – it wasn´t a Machado de Assis´s lover that he got here but actually a genius. It was kind of… intimidating.

However, that wasn´t excuse to the spectacularly low number of Assis´s poems reading. He shook his head, tsking humoredly. “Sixteen poems? Really?”

The guy blush deeps right when it started to fade, he seeming to understand from where John´s teasing was coming from (as from the fact that Assis wrote thousands of poems through his life). “I-it´s hard to find South America´s literature translated in the USA, even more poems.”

John laughs to the other man´s almost pout and make a decision. He stands, clapping the hands once before resting one above his chest. “As an avid reader myself, I can´t let this continue. For your luck, you managed to find a library who has all of Machado de Assis´s works, in english and in portuguese. Stay put, _mon cher_ , I will be right back.”

Was almost automatic by now the little flourish bow he made before turning to the right aisle, instantly activating the “ _attendant serving customer_ " mode. But before he could take two steps, a though crossed his mind and he turned back to the other man, who was looking rather disconcerted. “I´m sorry, I don´t think I caught your name, sweetheart.”

Something made him smile when he noticed weird look the guy gave him, feeling that maybe he wasn´t used to pet names. Or maybe not used from strangers, specially male ones. “S-… Spencer Reid.”

John nodded and saluted. “John Harrison at your service, Spencer Reid.”

He turned and stepped into the foreign aisle, looking for the dusted books he knew where there.


End file.
